


here comes the sun (little darling)

by diydynamite (hopefulundertone)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Angst, Archive Warnings Do Apply, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Love Confessions, M/M, Read Archive Warnings, king AU, there IS death so if it's not your thing move along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6591190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefulundertone/pseuds/diydynamite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hunt had been going so well, but like idiots, they'd rushed off after the raiders without thought, leaving behind all their supplies. Now, trapped out in the northern wilderness without a fire or method of making one, they're as good as fucked.</p><p> </p><p>(Or, Michael and Gavin are stuck in a cave, sheltering from a snowstorm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> partially inspired by james harris's cover of sweater weather, and is basically if you could catch hypothermia in the snow biomes of minecraft.  
> title from here comes the sun by the beatles, which i really recommend you listen to while reading! :)  
> hope you enjoy!  
> Edit: please read the official archive warning; there will be character death. If you're not about that life (or lack thereof), move along, nothing to see here!

It all started with a hunt. The kings of the Six Kingdoms had been chasing bandits, more for the hunt than anything; with a century of peace among the nations, they'd settled into a time of peace and prosperity nicely. Their hunts, if you could even call them that, were a mere game, with the splendid side-effect of reducing crime in their kingdoms. The kings had been riding up north, a week-long trip to decimate the bold border raiders that lived in the frozen wastelands beyond their rule, full of laughter and friendly competition, their camaraderie warm and bright like a torch, leading the way through progressively darker paths. The hunt had begun proper on the fourth day, when they'd spotted a large raiding party and set out to hunt them down, only for the bandits to attack on sight, each king laying waste about him as chaos reigned the battlefield. 

It had been a sight to behold as always. Ryan had destroyed all in his path, bloodlust overtaking his normally placid self, cutting the barbarians down with powerful blow by powerful blow as he demonstrated why he was nicknamed the Mad King by friend and foe alike. Alongside him had fought Ray, elegant and deadly like his emblem, rapier flashing at lightning speeds as he impales impeccably, never forsaking his flair even in the middle of combat. Geoff, their unofficial leader, mowed people down, black warhorse trampling his enemies while he cackled, sword slicing about him indiscriminately even as he trusted his comrades to have his back, like they always did. Jack, as steady in battle as he was in ruling his kingdom, had directed them towards the commander of the raiding party, steel broadsword killing mercilessly as they advanced towards the centre of the raiding party. As for Gavin, he'd taken a backseat as he always did, using his expert skills to drop the men like flies, every arrow from his well-worn bow finding a home in the heart or head of a bandit on the battlefield, and although the raiders had tried their best to take him down, they never got past the fearsome Mogar. Michael had gone berserk, roaring and swinging as his diamond broadsword laid waste to their attackers, defending the tree Gavin perched in like a dragon guarding his hoard. 

It had all been going so well. The bandits fled like mice, scurrying from the bloody carnage as the kings gave chase, the thrill of the hunt thrumming in their blood as they pursued. Gavin had tumbled unceremoniously down the tree, following Michael and crowing in delight as he plowed a path through the bodies on the battlefield, picking off the stragglers. High on adrenaline, they'd chased the most stubborn ones until they had slain them all, exiting the cave they'd tracked the last one to and grinning at each other in the rapidly failing light, snowflakes catching in their hair.

 

-

 

It's only when they turn around to retrace their steps that they realise how far out they've gone. The lights of the border villages are nowhere to be seen in the quickly thickening snowstorm, and every direction looks the same, frozen, barren wasteland stretching from horizon to horizon. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

“It's fine, we’ll find our way back, no problem.” 

“Not in this light, we won't.” Sure enough, the long winter night is already descending upon them, and the pale sunlight’s receding quickly. Michael can barely see the poorly disguised fear on Gavin’s face. “It's alright, they'll come looking for us. Just follow the trail of bodies, right? Here, we can shelter in this cave until they find us.”

They duck into the cave, settle back against the wall and make themselves comfortable, and it's then that Michael realises how screwed they really are. Like idiots, they'd rushed off after the raiders without thought, leaving behind all their supplies. Now, trapped out in the northern wilderness without a fire or method of making one, they're as good as fucked. He's alright for now, thick bear pelts keeping him warm, but Gavin, king of the summer kingdom where everything is bright and warm and full of light, is dressed in his creeper camouflage, the thin cloth that fits so well in his territory working against him now. They stare at each other for a moment, just long enough to exchange before Gavin looks out into the snowstorm again, Michael’s gaze following behind, searching for any sign of life. 

 

-

 

An hour passes. Gavin’s shivering now, enough to be visible in the failing light, and Michael’s seriously regretting not wearing a shirt into combat. Sure, it sounds like a good idea, looks badass and shows off his abs, up until the point where they're freezing in subzero temperatures, which is where a shirt would've come in handy. He mentions this to Gavin, and gets a chuckle out of him, but it only accentuates how much his teeth are chattering, and it makes Michael frown. “C’mere.”

“What?” Gavin looks around at him quizzically, and he tries not to think of how many boundaries he's crossing, because, sure, he likes Gavin, loves him, even, but they're kings of kingdoms and they have responsibilities and duties to uphold, something not many people realise the full extent of: when you're royalty, you make decisions for your country, not yourself. Still, here in this icy cave, huddled against a cold stone wall, they're just two people in a dangerous situation, so Michael shoves down the traitorous voice that tells him he's selfish, and holds out his arms, letting Gavin shuffle into them hesitantly before wrapping them around him, hugging his best friend to his chest. 

“You're cold as fuck.” Gavin turns his face up to look at Michael, expression patronising. But past the jokes, he's shivering even more now, breathing speeding up as he clings to Michael, face buried in his chest, and if he could, he would've kissed the top of Gavin’s head, but as it is, he can't, so he rests his cheek against it instead and wonders how things went so wrong. 

 

-

 

It feels like a quiet death now, the cold sinking in and in and in until Michael can’t feel his fingers anymore, locked in an icy grip around Gavin. The world narrows down to the feeble warmth between their bodies and the endless darkness inside and outside the cave, and a faint thought crosses his mind, that maybe he should be more worried, if not for himself, then for Gavin, maybe he should be fighting this feeling, but the cold ghosts past his lips, and he can't seem to care. It would take more energy than he currently has, and Michael's strangely okay with this situation. He has Gavin, after all. They'll be fine. They're always fine. He hears Gavin murmur, stir in his arms, and tilts his head down to listen. 

"Michael?"

"I'm here."

"Do you think we'll make it home?"

"I-" This clears the haze in his head, if only a little, and he blinks, frozen eyelashes sweeping across the top of his cheeks. It tickles. "I don't know." He should have probably said yes, but without hope on the horizon, it’s hard to lie to his friend’s face.

"Michael?" There's a note of something in Gavin's voice now, something resigned and sad, and Michael shakes himself, wills the fire in his blood to melt away the bone-deep cold. "Yes?"

"I never-" A pause. Michael finds himself beginning to surface, head finally breaking the surface of the daze he's fallen into, and he meets Gavin's half-lidded gaze, questioning. "I don't think-"

"What is it?"

"If we don't make it-"

"We will."

"But if we don't-" Michael makes a move to shush him, but Gavin's eyes blaze with something now, and it reminds him of the last warm breeze of summer, before the brisk fall rolls in, something inexplicably sad yet urgent about it. "If we don't make it, Michael-"

"What?"

"I did love you. Still do, I mean." 

And Michael's world grinds to a halt. Everything stops and comes into sharp focus, and the earth seems to shift into place, like the last puzzle piece he never could find. All the times he had pined over his fellow king, all the daydreams he'd had, and never once had he considered this. "You- you what?" Gavin turns his face away, looks out onto the bleak landscape. "I don't want to die without telling you. Even if you don't feel the same way." 

He can't do anything, for a second, can't process the information through his frozen brain, but he slowly understands, and he flexes his hands, brings them up to cup Gavin's face. Their lips connect, and he sees Gavin's eyes go wide, and then snap shut. They draw apart after a moment, and he presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes. "Why tell me now, Gavin? Why not earlier?" Warm air ghosts over his face as his counterpart sighs. "I don't know. I was afraid." They sit like that for a while, Michael still turning the information over in his mind, when he stops. "What do you mean, "did"?"

Gavin won't meet his eyes. 

"What do you mean, Gavin?"

Gavin closes his eyes and rests against Michael, chilly skin a shock to his own, and he feels the ominous stillness of his body. He's not shivering anymore.

"No. No, no, fuck, no, Gavin, don't do this to me." Because it's clear now, everything tumbling into place. Gavin, with his crushing fear of rejection, wouldn't have confessed to him unless- unless he'd given up all hope of ever making it back, and the idea, the terrifying idea that Michael could lose him now, so soon after finding him, is enough to shake him of the spell the cold has over him. 

"Gavin, please. We can make it back, alright? They'll find us, and we'll get back to our kingdoms, boy. We'll go back to where it's warm and safe and I'll fucking court you all proper-like even though we've known each other forever, bring you flowers and trinkets and all the diamond you want, and I'll tame ten ocelots for you if you want, and I'll ask Geoff for your hand even though he's not even your father, and we'll have one of those June weddings you love so much and I'll hold a banquet, fuck, a holiday, and people will love it." Michael presses his face into Gavin's neck, clutching him as if he could stop death from taking him. He feels rather than sees Gavin smile, but knows it didn't work, knows the summer king has given up hope of seeing this winter's end. 

"Michael..."

Michael shakes, from cold or devastation or both, entire body shivering.  "Don't do this to me. Not now. We just, I just- Please. Please, Gavin, don't-" And he knows he sounds insane, like he's begging for something out of anyone's control, but he can't lose Gavin, would do anything to stop the inevitable. "Everyone, Gavin. Jack, Ryan, Ray. They need you. Geoff needs you, you're like a son to him. You can't-" His voice has cracked, barely a whisper and completely devoid of strength, but he presses on. "I need you, Gavin."

There's no reply but a rattling breath, and he draws back to see Gavin's eyes drift shut with an unshakeable finality. Michael slumps, cradling the king to his chest, begging and praying wordlessly, soundlessly, mouth working in a silent cry, a plea to any, every deity for salvation. 

  
He doesn't know the exact moment Gavin slips away, but he feels the body's regular rise and fall for breath slow, shallow, until it's barely there. Somewhere between then and dawn, Gavin Free stops breathing entirely. Michael realises through the haze of cold and numb agony, and feels a hot tear streak down his frozen cheek, quickly cooling and freezing on his skin. It bites, but he barely notices it. Barely notices anything, anymore, and closes his eyes, begging for the cold to take him too.


	2. aftermath

It doesn't happen, because Michael's life is a tragedy straight out of a play. They find him at dawn, as the cold rays of sunlight first peek over the snowy plains, and he almost doesn't realise. He hears voices, raised voices, sees warm light and murmurs, and hopes against hope it's angels come to take him to Gavin, but it's not, of course it's not.  His friends' faces come into view as he cracks open icy eyelids, and he doesn't remember anything else. They pry Gavin from his grip despite his grasping hands, and he blacks out, finally.

-

He wakes up in the wooden room of an inn with a shaman standing over him, grim face furrowed in concentration. His limbs feel strange, like the blood rushing through them is new, is warmer than his own, somehow. He dismisses it as magic and falls back into blessed unconsciousness.

-

The next time Michael wakes up, he's in wrapped in woollen blankets and draped in a heavy quilt, lying in a bed in the same room. The world around him seems warm and safe, quiet bliss, until his memory begins to slip back. He remembers piece by piece, everything that happened, and buries his head back into his wrappings, praying for oblivion, because Gavin is gone. He’ll never hear his sunny laugh, or his uniquely foolish mangling of his name, or see the dazzling smile he reserves for Michael, all delighted adoration. They’ll never go for walks and casual hunts in the woods, or make idiotic bets and make a fool of each other, or sneak off together to stand on balconies and play pranks on the others at Geoff’s pompous royal parties, or fight back to back, gazes meeting in adrenaline-filled excitement or smug triumph. Gavin is gone, for good, never to return, and the realisation numbs him, chills the blood running through his veins. After an immeasurable time, he swings his legs out from under the covers. It takes him a while to stand, longer for the room to stop spinning. He wonders how long it will take for the ache in his chest to go away.

He finds his friends. Jack, exiting a room across the hall, meets him first, eyes widening in surprise to see him up and walking around, face crinkling into a smile as he hugs him. There's sorrow lingering in the corners of his grin though, a sadness that stains his eyes, and Michael understands. He walks with Jack down the stairs of the tavern, leaving the solemn king to talk to the shopkeeper while he makes his way outside. There's the smallest garden out back, mostly vegetables and herbs, but Ray and Ryan sit on a rickety wooden bench facing it, shoulders pressed together. A sprig of roses lies on the ground, and he feels a lump rise in his throat. Michael goes back in without speaking to them. There is time enough for that later, when he is a stronger man.

He is about to return to his own room when a yell and a crash of glass catches his attention, and he turns to look at the door across his, the one Jack had left. He'd assumed it was Jack's room, but apparently not. Pushing open the door, he sees Geoff facing the wall, chest heaving. The elder king holds in his hand a shattered bottle, and he turns to meet Michael's gaze, eyes red and cheeks wet. Geoff is clearly drunk, evidenced by the many empty ale bottles littering the floor, but it's the visceral, raw devastation in his eyes that strikes Michael like a blow. He crosses the room without thinking, removes the broken bottle from Geoff's suddenly limp grip, and guides him to the bed. They sit together for a period of time, eternity or an instant, Michael couldn't tell you, and though the air is heavy, it's weighed with a shared understanding of the profound loss, the empty space where someone should be, but isn't, will never be anymore.

Jack enters, after a time, crosses the room to sit on Geoff’s other side. Michael leaves.

 

-

 

They return to their kingdoms, resume business as usual. There is a period of mourning throughout the land, but it ends; after all, their people have mouths to feed and livelihoods to make, and the world doesn't stop for a king, no matter how good a ruler he was. Michael resumes court, loses himself in administration and justice and managing an entire kingdom of people. His ministers and knights sense something different, something wrong, but he doesn't address it, and in time, learns to maintain a facade of normality, like pulling a cloth over the hole in his soul. He holds up.

The five kings are invited to the royal funeral, a month later. He breathes deep when he reads the invitation, dismisses his ministers for the day and returns to his chambers. The next day, he sets out, and arrives a week before the stipulated date. They welcome him anyway, beloved friend of the kingdom he is, show him to his rooms and provide his every need. The only other one there is Geoff, who organised as much of it as they would allow another king to. Michael finds him in the throne room the same day, walking into the airy, sunlit room to find the king standing at one of the giant arched windows Gavin was so fond of. He looks out at the castle grounds, doesn't turn when Michael approaches to stand by him, and his voice is weary with grief when he asks, "Are you alright?"

Michael shrugs. There's no correct answer to that; he's not, but he has to be. His friend’s dead, but beyond himself, before himself, he’s a king. A king cannot afford to be selfish, cannot afford to mourn when there is work to be done. Geoff seems to understand, anyway, finally turning to look at him, and the sunlight throws the crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes into sharp relief, the wrinkles that years and duty and despair has carved into his face, and Michael realises with a shock that Geoff is old, and wonders how many people he has lost. Wonders what it would take for him to become like Geoff. "He loved you, you know? He wanted to tell you, so many times."

It's like a punch to the gut, a slap in the face, the reminder that they could have had, would have had something if things had been different. Michael swallows the lump in his throat and nods. "He told me that night. He knew already that he wouldn't-" Trailing off, he has to look away, to compose himself.

"Goddamn." It's quiet, barely a whisper, and there's no anger behind it, just endless depths of sorrow. There is nothing more to say, and Geoff leaves soon after.

  
Michael stays there, staring out the windows at the late afternoon sunlight until the sun itself sets, bleeding orange and red and pink over silver clouds, until nothing's left but starry dusk.

**Author's Note:**

> i did cut the funeral itself (along with so many flashback scenes to good mavin times hehe) from the final draft but if you think i should post it separately, feel free to tell me! as always, comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
